The Middlegame
by LadyInglorion
Summary: No one would be there to hear the gunshot. He was alone. Perfectly and tranquilly alone. The shack in Nepal was void of human life. Then again, he supposed that he wasn't completely alone- he did have his gun. The scene seemed almost surreal; Dr. Banner had never expected that his life would come to this, a last breath drawn before a bullet passed through his skull.


No one would be there to hear the gunshot.

He was alone. Perfectly and tranquilly alone. The shack in Nepal was void of human life; he had not experienced physical connection with another person for several months now; it was better that way. Even the field mice and muskrats didn't dare venture into his present home. They knew they would be unwelcome. Nothing alive wanted anything to do with him. The scene seemed almost surreal; Dr. Banner had never expected that his life would come to this, a last breath drawn before a bullet passed through his skull.

He supposed that he wasn't completely alone. He did have his gun. The revolver lay several feet away on the oak table, elegantly tilted so that the barrel rested perpendicular to the doctor's chest, glimmering softly despite the fact there was no moonlight on this particular night. It was quite beautiful as far as weapons went. The grip – made of pristine finished mahogany – curved gently, a perfect fit for the palm of a person's hand. It connected to the dark, metallic steel of the gun's body, which in turn twisted into the physique of the weapon, a five inch barrel, and elegantly curved hammer, and the prong of the trigger. Dr. Banner had never had a taste for guns before; in fact he had considered himself a pacifist. Things had changed, though. Things had most certainly changed.

The good doctor leaned forward and retrieved a small glass cup that had left a ring of condensation on the table beside his gun and took a deep gulp. His throat screamed as it was consumed by fire; Nepali liquor had a surprising kick to it. After finishing off the drink in the little glass he refilled it, but couldn't find the heart to down yet another shot. He returned the bottle and the cup to the table and slumped backward into his chair, body contorted at strange angles, legs splayed wildly, and his forehead resting in one hand. His fingers slid into his greasy, unkempt black hair as his body sank lower, and he found his chest racked with harsh, tearful sobs.

"Betty…" he moaned, tears dripping down his grime-covered cheeks. "Betty… Oh, I miss you…"

The man suddenly stood, tripping wildly because of his drunkenness, and stumbled across the shack, away from the gun, to where his backpack had been cast aside in the corner of the room. This he fell beside, landing roughly on his left hip, and he began to dig through it, tossing items that he soon would have no use for away, until he came to a small plywood box, sealed by a green rubber band. Bruce fell backward, mouth falling open slightly as he held the little cube, eyes glazing over in awe. It was such a little thing, that box, but it was so important to him. It was everything he had to hold on to. It contained everything he had left of _her._

He returned to his seat at the table before opening the box, and took another drink – this time straight from the bottle – and then slipped the catch open. The box' lid popped off, and Bruce's clumsy fingers dug into its contents. The first item he retrieved was a little gold chain, from which dangled a small charm depicting a hydrogen atom. He smiled weakly. It'd been a gag gift, a little joke between he and Betty. It was a cheap little dollar-store item, purchased at the last minute before Christmas Eve several years ago. He hadn't thought much of it when he'd opened it, and neither had she, but he'd gained an attraction to that stupid thing, and somehow it had survived through every trial it had undergone, from the Other Guy, to tank missiles, to fire. He doubted Betty even knew he had kept the damn thing, and he doubted she would care if she did. It didn't mean anything to her. Regardless, he slipped the overly long chain over his head and clasped the gyrating atom in his right hand as he returned his attention back to the box.

He pulled out her picture next. It was a frayed and faded around the edges, and a burn in the flimsy parchment marred her left cheek, but it was still beautiful. He'd taken it from her house the night so long ago he'd hidden there, a result of curiosity and insomnia, and had slept with it cradled against his chest ever since. There was scarcely a night sleep came easily without it. The doctor leaned closer to the photograph, taking a long drawl from the bottle of liquor. Her long black hair fell in a curtain across her neck, and a flower pinned her bangs out of her eyes. She lay in a green meadow sprinkled with red and yellow daffodils; Bruce had taken this shot. They'd been on a trip together, acting as guest lecturers in various universities, and they'd stopped in Denver, Colorado. It was a beautiful place. They'd always talked about moving there someday. Of course, that would never be a possibility now. Bruce let the picture fall to the table and a few more tears snuck from his eyes.

The last relic in the box was folded into a tight little square, and Bruce almost turned away from it, fearing the onslaught of painful memories that came rushing back as he thought of its contents. Nevertheless, whether it was a conscious motion or not, he picked the crumpled piece of paper out of the box gingerly and unfolded it, blurry vision focusing on the neatly printed poem…

_Goodnight my angel, time to close your eyes _

_And save these questions for another day. _

_ I think I know what you've been asking me. I think you know what I've been trying to say_

_I promised I would never leave you. And you should always know, I never will be far away_

Bruce's hand tightened dangerously around the frail piece of parchment as tears cascaded from his eyes. She had written this for him. She had written it so many years ago for him. Despite all those times she had claimed to hate poetry. Despite all those times she had professed her insecurities regarding the written word.

_Goodnight my angel, now it's time to sleep. And still so many things I want to say._

_Remember all the songs you sang for me, when we went sailing on an emerald bay._

_And like a boat out on the ocean I'm rocking you to sleep. The water is dark and deep inside this lover's heart, you'll always be a part of me._

A loud, painful sob choked it's way from Bruce's chaffed, broken lips, and the tears in his eyes now made it impossible to see, but he didn't need his eyes to recite the rest of the verse. He knew it by heart.

_Goodnight my angel, now it's time to dream. And dream how wonderful your life will be. _

_Some day a child may cry and if you sing this lullaby then in your heart there will always be a part of me._

Bruce Banner lurched to his feet with an agonized, tortured scream, slamming his fists upon the oak table with enough force to splinter one of the rickety legs. She'd sung this to him the night before his procedure. The night before everything changed. The night before the Other Guy had taken over. The scientist cried out again, digging his fingernails into the table, leaving indented tracks and taking rough, jagged splinters with him under his nails, his anguish tearing him apart from the inside out. She had been pregnant. She had been carrying his child. They were to have had a perfect family. And then he had killed that. Killed all of it. The stress of the Hulk's attack on the researchers clustered to observe his experiment had caused their unborn daughter to die in the womb. It was his fault. He should have been in control. He should have protected her. Bruce moaned again and, turning wildly, lifted the chair he had previously occupied above his head before flinging it against the wooden wall of the small shack. It shattered into several pieces and Bruce slumped back against the table. As he moved to brace himself against the flat tabletop, his fingers bumped the revolver. He looked down at the small handgun, eyes glistening with unshed tears. Almost unconsciously, he found his fingers wrapping around the hilt of the weapon and he brought it close to his face, breathing ragged and heart rate slowing. This was what he came for after all. Out here into the wilderness of Nepal so that no one could hear his scream. He'd never been a man who enjoyed the limelight. And the only person he cared about was several thousand miles away. He let a final tear trickle from the corner of his eye, and then slipped the barrel of the gun into the back of his throat.

Yet, before he pulled the trigger, his eyes turned to the abandoned photograph of Betty resting on the table. Her smile was sweet, her blue eyes endearing, her fair skin clean and beautiful. For a moment, he was distracted by a scatterbrained fantasy of her hair tangled around his fingers, her flowery perfume washing over his sense and making his knees go weak. And then he pulled the trigger.

-.-.-.-.-.-

Dr. Banner awoke on the shores of a shallow creek, covered in a fine layer of snow and shivering crazily. He sat up slowly, sore muscles protesting his every movement. He had no idea where he was, and for a moment could recall nothing. Then he remembered.

He'd shot himself, shot himself several times in the head. The agony was instant, and he had tumbled to the ground, limbs flailing wildly, blood pooling beneath his fallen body. He had thought he was going to drown in it, the blood. He thought the pain alone would be enough to kill him. But just when the lights had begun to flicker out, he was overwhelmed by green, and an earsplitting roar racked his whole body. After that, everything was a blur.

The scientist ran a quizzical finger through the hair on the back of his head. There was barely even a scar. He groaned, righting himself slowly. He was clad in only his characteristic purple pants. If he didn't find shelter soon, he surely freeze. The nearest village was a six-hour walk from here. The good doctor, synching the sweatpants tighter around his waist, pressed forward. He had no choice but to keep on keeping on.

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**AN: Thank you for reading. As of now, this is going to be a one-shot, but, depending on the feedback, I might extend it. Write in your review if you'd like me to continue the storyline or if this should just exist solely by itself. If you would like me to continue the story, go ahead and throw in suggestions for the plot. Once again, thanks for reading!**

**Hockey**


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